


Aphonia

by ArvenaPeredhel



Series: Voiceless Verse [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Maglor was taken in Maedhros's stead. He was freed, but lost a hand and a voice, and must continue on.





	Aphonia

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What If It Hadn't Been Maedhros?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915755) by [ArvenaPeredhel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel). 



Softness. He’s surrounded by softness. 

Slowly, Macalaurë returns to consciousness, though as he wakes he feels as if he’s being drawn up out of deep water. With every passing second he can feel more - he’s flat on his back, and he can feel the worn texture of cloth under the fingers of his left hand, and the sharp fire in his throat is dulled, and there’s a faint pain in his right wrist, and the air is crisp and aromatic - but he doesn’t open his eyes. _Too bright… so much light… some new trick of Moringoþo?_

 _No,_ he realizes, _it can’t be, because I smell aþëa and Moringoþo_ hated _aþëa… where am I?_ His movements are restricted, and his limbs heavy, and he panics and opens his eyes, the light be damned. What he sees takes his breath away.

He’s in a sunlit room, with open windows on all sides and a door to his left. There are abandoned chairs around where he lies ( _bed_ , this is a _bed_ ) and the walls are clean and white. Heavy things are drawn up to his chest, pinning his arms and legs in place - _bed… bedclothes_ , he thinks at last. And.. and _bandages. That’s the word_. Carefully, still looking up at the dark wood of the ceiling, he draws his arms up until they’re lying beside him in the open air, free of the cumbersome _b… I know it was a b word… blankets? Yes_. Instinctively he shifts his right hand, fingers seeking to drum out a rhythm as a comforting anchor - 

\- nothing. 

He tries again. No motion from his hand, nothing at all below the wrist.

_What?_

Panic. _What happened. What don’t I remember?_ He strains to sit up further, beyond the propped support of - of _pillows_ (first time, yes, I have not lost my senses yet) but the muscles in his arms fail him and he falls back to the _mattress_ (the right word I think, though I’m not sure) with a silent _whuff_ of air. There are little pinpricks of fire working their way up from his elbows where he tried to sit up, and he groans in frustration. _What is going on…_

Slowly, ever so slowly, he inches his arm up towards his face. When he catches a glimpse of the stump of his wrist he chokes, his eyes filling with tears, and he feels what little hope he had fluttering in his _fëa_ burn away to ash. 

_I… I’ll..I’ll never… I’ll never play again._

Silent sobs escape his heaving chest, and cold dread descends as he remembers - darkness, and a crudely made wooden bucket, and firefire _fire_ coursing down his throat. 

 _I’ll never… I’ll never play, I can’t even sing again… oh Eru, oh Valar_ please…

The force of his sobs propels him upward until he’s almost bent double, cradling his maimed arm against his chest.

He doesn’t hear the door open.

~*~

“Káno?”

When Maitimo stepped through the door into the sickroom he thought he was going to faint from shock. He’s awake. “Oh Eru.” he half-moaned, right hand going to the doorframe for support. “Káno…”

His brother was painfully thin, his ashen skin stretched taut over bone, but what sent chills to the heart of the eldest of Fëanáro’s sons was how earnestly Macalaurë wept without making a sound. 

 _How hard was he beaten when he cried that he could learn to do this?_ he thought, and the question sparked hot anger in his heart. He moved to the bed, sitting opposite his sibling. They were close enough to touch, but Maitimo kept his distance.

“Káno?” he asked again, gently. “Káno it… it’s me, it’s Nelyafinwë, I’m here, it’s all right." 

The weeping figure took a shuddering breath and glanced up. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock; he stared at Maitimo as though he couldn’t imagine how his eldest sibling came to be sitting before him, as though he’d died and he was staring at Varda in her splendor before he was sent to Mandos. Through the still-silent sobs the copper-haired King could see the other _nér_ ’s lips moving, the same word again and again - _Nelyo?_ \- and he found there were tears in his eyes.

"Yes.” Maitimo answered. “It’s Nelyo. It’s your brother. I’m right here.” His eyes were grey as stormclouds but calm as the sea at dawn. “You’re safe.” At the word safe Macalaurë crumpled, crying in earnest despite his silence. His bandaged left hand - badly broken in Angamando - was still clutching the stump of his right wrist.  

“Are you all right?” he asked, his own hand going to his brother’s shoulder. “Are you in any pain?" 

Macalaurë looked up and shook his head, his eyes red-rimmed and half-mad with fear and relief. When he was touched he flinched, but as the spasm faded from his weak muscles he fell into Maitimo’s arms and held fast to his brother as though he were trying to cling to a dream.

The eldest son of Fëanáro tightened his arms about his brother’s frail body. Macalaurë was clinging to him with bandaged hand and what was left of his maimed right arm, and Maitimo could feel every bone in his ribs even through the loose shift the healers had draped him in to preserve his modesty. The force of his sobs was enough to set his whole body shaking; all that his older brother could do was hold him and try to master his growing anger. _They must have broken him utterly._

_How dare they._

There were footsteps outside, and then a collective gasp.

"Káno?!”

“He’s awake!”

“Is he in any pain?”

“What’s wrong?”

Maitimo looked up to see four worried faces peering in through the door. He tried to smile, though he worried his rage would be showing. No one dared to move for what felt like an eternity, but finally Ambarussa fought his way through the press of bodies. He took a few steps towards his seated siblings, but he was off balance and almost fell onto the bed. With a sigh, Maitimo nodded; the remaining brothers soon joined them.

“Is he all right?” Ambarussa asked at once. Macalaurë had calmed a little, though he was still clinging to his older brother.

“I don’t know.” Maitimo answered, one hand on his back. “He hasn’t said anything to me yet.”

“At all?” Curufinwë said. “Strange.”

“He shook his head when I asked him if he was in pain.” the red-haired King replied. “But he was sobbing when I saw him, and he was doing so in absolute silence.”

“Like a wounded animal.” Tyelkormo commented, and Carnistir shot him a pointed look.

“That’s enough.” Maitimo said, before it could turn into an argument. “Whatever happened, we’ll get through it. Together. I promise you, Káno. We’re safe." 

"You can make noise around us.” Tyelkormo said. “I promise we won’t hurt you." 

~*~

_"I promise we won’t hurt you.”_

The voice is low and booming and echoes around the inside of Macalaurë’s skull. He trembles and tightens his grip around Nelyo’s chest. _They think I’m afraid. That I was beaten down and broken.That I taught myself to weep without a sound. Valar, what am I going to tell them?_

_This is your fault, Kanafinwë. You trusted blindly. You thought orcs were merciful? That Mairon wasn’t jealous of your voice? That Moringoþo would leave you unmarked?_

_You fool. You utter fool._

He draws himself up, wiping the tears from his face with the bandages on his left hand. Five pairs of eyes watch his every move as his gaze drops to his lap. _Your fault. Your fault. You’ll never make music again._

“… I can’t speak.” he says at last. It would have been a murmur.

~*~

Carnistir swore violently at his brother’s words. 

Ambarussa frowned. “I didn’t hear what he said, what was it?”

“That’s the _point_.” their red-faced sibling said, the words ground through set teeth. “He didn’t _say_  anything.”

“Then how - ?”

“I read his lips, Pityo. He said he can’t speak.”

The room went deadly silent. For a long time no one spoke, and then Curufinwë’s voice cut through the quiet.

“ _What.”_

Macalaurë buried his face in what was left of his hands and sobbed.


End file.
